Nothing More Freeing Than This
by EvelynGrace
Summary: In sixth year. He's positive that he won't live to twenty, let alone to his 17th, and Harry knows that there's nothing more freeing that being yourself, or feeling alive, but maybe he could feel all this, and you know, some day not have Old Voldie after him? - Journey ends in or after seventh year, depending on how long I let him live. Joking. SLASH 1st warning. Romance drama humor
1. Chapter one

**A/N_ Hi! This is my first Harry Potter fic. That's your first and last warning about the quality of work being done here. Also, I'm really shitty at updating, but I can't seem to stop myself from uploading this new story.**

**WARNING: **Contains SLASH, though not highly graphic. If it's not for you, go somewhere else.

**Here we go!**

**(PS. **There's a bit in here about Veritaserum that should not be considered as fact or reliable information**)**

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**Nothing more freeing than this**

**Chapter one: Detention . . . for the innocent? I think not. **

He was late, so very late. So late in fact, that he was willing to re-consider Professor McGonagall's offer of turning him into a pocket watch in first year. He wheezed as he turned the last corner, and clutching his side he realized just how out of shape he was. Almost one whole year of no Quidditch practise had, as expected, left him as fit as the Fat Lady.

He was intelligent. He knew this; in fact, he was just as smart as Hermione. But, unlike Hermione, who was willing to spend every minute of her life studying and reading in that godforsaken library, he was lazy and un-motivated. Why be motivated, he thought, when it was highly likely that he'd be dead before he was twenty. It was a miracle he'd made it to this age, when an immortal, crazed, evil wizard with a penchant for pain was after him. But he digressed. It was with this knowledge of his above average intelligence that Harry realized that he should be able to remember the simplest of things. Like, for instance, the distance from Gryffindor tower to the dungeons, where Snape's office resided. But no, he had left within five minutes of his scheduled detention. He knew he should have left with 10 minutes, but he'd ignored the clock and Hermione's glares.

And now, he was arriving at the Professor's door, five minutes late, which was too late in Snape's book.

Straightening up, he composed himself. Slowing his breathing down from the wheezing puffs into calm even inhales and exhales was accomplished, surprisingly, easier and quicker then he thought possible.

Preparing himself for the next 2-3 hours, however, could take him the rest of his short life.

Raising a fisted hand, he knocked firmly of the door twice.

Instantly, as if knowing he was there, the dangerously calm and sickening voice of Professor Snape could be heard, "Come in."

Resisting the urge to shudder in disgust, he pushed the door open.

He sat at his desk, with a stack of what looked to be, by the quality of writing, First year Essay's.

Harry walked up to the desk and stopped.

Snape didn't look up from the essay in front him at all, and with a curt tone, spoke to him, "I'm going to ignore you're tardiness, because I simply can't find it in me to care. I'll trust that, having grown up with Muggles, you'll know the correct procedures when cleaning by hand?"

Harry clenched his jaw, glaring right at the top of the greasy git head, "Yes, sir."

"Good, then you should be able to sufficiently clean a cauldron, or fifty." He spoke again, without looking at Harry, and then jerked his head toward the corner of the classroom. Harry looked over, and noted that yes; it was highly possible that at least fifty cauldron pots had a date with his scrubbing hand tonight.

Awesome, he thought, darkly.

Trudging over to them, he sat on the cold stone floor and with great reluctance, started in on the easiest looking one.

He was unwillingly reminded of all those years with the Dursley's. He could remember all the time spent cleaning Petunia's special china, and found himself wishing all the more that he had had the balls to throw every single one of those gold-edged plates at his Aunts horse-like face.

Maybe, he thought, he could make up for the lack of balls in that situation, by doing so in this situation? All he had to do was grab the most disgusting looking cauldron, stand up and through it right the Professor . . .

He shook his head, "Bad idea."

"What was that, Potter?" Snape snapped.

Looking over at the man, he found, thankfully, that he could not see over the high desks.

Turning back to the pots, he answered in an even tone, "Nothing, sir."

A perturbed grunt was all he got back, which was fine with Harry.

It was stupid really, the reason for this detention had nothing to do with potions and it had just been his abnormally bad luck that had led to Professor Snape catching him, instead of some other Teacher. None of whom would find it necessary to place punishment for such an act.

The act being, as simply put, was he supposed voyeurism. Though Snape was blissfully unaware of it.

Now, before assumptions are made, it was not purposeful voyeurism. He had, unknowingly to him, walked into the Slytherin changing rooms. Understand this, he had been looking for the Slytherin teams broom closets, which was another matter entirely, and had mistakenly opened the door on a completely bare-assed Draco Malfoy.

Any straight boy would have likely yelped in disgust or simply turned away with disinterest. But, little did many know, Harry Potter was not a straight boy. He was irrevocably and irresistibly, gay.

And he did not think it disgusting nor uninteresting to see a naked Malfoy. Because, though Harry had for all his school years, hated Malfoy with an unjustified and unreasonable passion, he could not deny that the Blonde Prat was in fact, attractive.

However, Snape was not giving him detention for staring unabashedly at the showering teen; no, he was giving him detention for supposedly trying to spy on the Green-team.

Not what he was trying to do, but given the situation Harry had found himself in, he decided that it better Snape thought he was up to the 'usual', than allow him to discover that Harry had stood in the doorway staring for almost a minute, unnoticed by the Blonde who had his back turned to Harry. Both a blessing and a curse, Harry thought wryly, as he grabbed the next lucky pot.

By the time Snape had wrenched Harry's shoulder back and away from the door, Malfoy had reached for his towel and was also in the motion of turning off the water. So, both Snape and Malfoy were left unaware of what Harry was doing, Harry had willingly accepted the blame for Snape's fabricated story made to get him in trouble and here he sat. Cleaning cauldrons, and oh, how life was grand.

Sadly, he wondered if one year, he would live peacefully, with no angry Professors out to make his life a never-ending detention and no Dark wizards after his blood.

If all went well, he thought, he could do just that in a year or two. But that was unlikely.

Resisting the urge to sigh in frustration as a stain so thick refused to be scrubbed away; he placed the pot down, cracked his tired fingers, and moved onto the next one.

He would come back to it, he thought.

An hour passed, and then two. Harry's whole arm was burning. The muscles so sore, he could barely move them. He was just about to throw down the last pot, which he had returned to, and then scream at Snape that he was not, despite what his relatives thought, a house elf, when at long last, he heard in that condescending bored tone, "Alright, Potter, its 8:30. You best get back to your dorms before I have to dock points for being out after hours."

Harry, stood from his sitting position, and almost fell back down.

His legs had gone to sleep and his back was killing him. Great.

Turning to glare at the Professor, he dropped the last cauldron so that it made a horribly loud clanging noise, and with the calmest tone he could manage said, "Next time, sir, that you are in need of a house elf, I suggest you employ yourself. The last pot has undeniable traces of a substance which can only be used in the veritaserum, something that us student are _forbidden _to brew. And you see, my Aunt always told that you should clean your own mess, though she often forgot to practise what she preached, the comment still stands . . . sir. Clean your own fucking cauldrons next time."

And with that, he turned and walked out of the classroom.

When the door slammed closed, no one could see the almost smile on middle-aged man's face as he stood from his chair, and with a trained grace, walked calmly over to the cauldron, picked it up and then with a raised eyebrow and the smirk still in place, noted that Potter had done a better job at cleaning away the stain than he ever could.

X

"Idiot," he cursed himself, half jogging up the moving stairs.

He'd lost control. He hadn't meant to. Harry had planned to bid the Professor goodnight in a calm and respectful way, but instead, he had practically signed his afternoons away to the man. H e had acted irrationally; stupidly.

Maybe when he graduated next year, he could work for Mr. Filch. Surely by the end of his schooling, he'd have enough practice in cleaning cauldrons that he would qualify to clean Hogwarts?

He almost laughed, because to assume that he would even graduate at all, was to assume that he would live till then.

He arrived at the landing, and taking quick note of where the stairs had taken him, he reached into his back and took out the invisibility cloak. As he slung it around himself, he was almost scared half to death by a whispered voice.

"You shouldn't be out after dark."

Almost tripping over the hem of the cloak, Harry spun around full circle in search for the culprit.

He frowned, there was no one there.

"Over here, the painting to the left of the door."

Oh . . . he deflated in relief, and stepped to the left of the door, and focused on the paining there. It was framed in a brilliant gold. The intricate detail of the frame was almost as beautiful as the painting, which was of a woman standing in a deep purple, silk gown. She had mahogany coloured ringlets' almost reaching her waist, delicate shoulders that were on show due to the off the shoulder-design. High cheek-bones, long dark lashes, deep brown eyes and what appeared to be a natural pink blush.

He thought he could spot a couple of freckles decorating her nose as well. And when he focused out again, he noticed that her full lips were pulled into an enthused grin.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's just; nobody has come up here in a while and most definitely not a student." She said to him in almost whisper. Her voice, he noted was just as beautiful as the rest of her. If he were of that persuasion, he'd say that she was the most beautiful being he'd ever seen. But, however, it stood that the most beautiful human being he had ever seen, was a male. A boy, in fact. One his own age, but that was beside the point. She _was_ the most beautiful _woman _he had ever seen.

He shook his head, "Its fine . . . ?" he trailed of, unsure of what her name was.

She took the hint, and seemed to inflate with pride at her name, "Lady Evelyn Antoinette Beauchamp."

His face remained blank; he had no idea if that name was supposed to hold any significance, and for some reason he felt bad for not knowing.

She seemed to almost read his mind, though she did not lose one ounce of her prideful look.

"Don't feel bad if you know not of my name, it is old and not of your kind."

He frowned, "What do you mean, "Not of our kind"? I mean, you don't mean to say that you're a muggle, do you? Forgive me, Lady Evelyn, but I always thought only people with magical power could be painted as you are."

She nodded her head, "You are right, young Mister Potter, and my name is not from a wizarding family. My parents were muggle, I am muggleborn. But this is unimportant, however. What is, would be why you are out of bed at this hour and in a restricted section, no less."

He barely kept his face blank; he never did pay attention to where the stairs led him when he gave them free rain. But never before had they led him to trouble.

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**Thanks for reading! **

**Please review!**


	2. Chapter two

**I have no excuse, I'm just incredibly lazy. Sorry. **

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**Chapter two: The Abandoned Tower**

**X**

"Do not worry, no one will tell; you'll find that most of us won't bother you, or rather, can't bother you."

He narrowed his eyes at her, brow crinkling too and asked, "Most of us?"

She nodded, "Yes, all the other painting I mean."

Giving the walls around him a quick once over, Harry realized that yes, there were other paintings, but none of them seemed to be looking at him, not the least bit curious.

The paintings decorated the walls all the way up the stair well.

Funny that, Harry thought, he hadn't even realized that he seemed to be ascending one of the towers.

He had no idea which one though. He'd noticed all the doors that were on the walls with small landings sticking out before them, but none of the stairs had led him to those, instead it had led him here, to the only painting who seemed to care that he was in an apparently forbidden tower.

He turned back to Lady Evelyn, "Um, can I ask why they don't seem to care that I'm here? And if they don't care, then why do you?"

She laughed, like full on threw her head back and laughed.

And he was just about to start keeping a time of how long she could go for, when she straightened and wiped her non-existent tears.

"Oh Harry, they don't not care that you're here, I'm sure if they even knew you were, it'd be a different story entirely. Look at them all Harry, look closely." She leaned in closer, or well, she seemed to; in the painting.

Taking her direction, he turned around on the landing, and stepped up to the guard rails.

And with a shock, he startled back, almost crashing into Lady Evelyn's painting.

"There all dead."

He'd thought they were sleeping or something, simply ignoring him. He hadn't looked close enough. But they were all _dead._

_Merlin. _

"What . . . happened?" he asked, turning back to the Lady,

She looked down at him with sorrow in her pretty eyes.

"It . . . is hard to speak of . . . young Mister Potter . . . I suppose a good place to start would be to say that . . . well, he ruined us, just as he ruined you."

Understanding this, Harry dropped his head, "Voldemort."

She hummed in agreement.

"He was barely a man when it happened. He _hid _something here you see. Its poison leaked into every aspect of this abandoned tower." The Lady seemed to almost sneer in disgust for the thing she spoke of. For whatever was hidden here.

Harry stepped closer to her, almost thirsting for this little bit of knowledge.

"What exactly _is it_ that he hid?"

The Lady seemed to, as if in a daze, lift her delicate hand to her bosom, where a chain that had gone unnoticed by Harry dangled, the pendant hidden down between soft cleavage, and covered by the fine fabric of the Lady's gown, and then her hand clasped the chain, hesitantly lifting the pendant from its hiding place and then releasing it, the chain and pendant making a slight _clinking _noise as it swung back to its original place, except over cloth now.

Staring down, she whispered, "He hid this, spelled it into my painting."

Frozen in shock, confusion, fear whatever; Harry couldn't quite seem to comprehend what was happening. It was a necklace for Merlin's sake. What harm could it cause? And how the hell did one 'spell' an object into a painting. And why did Voldemort have to be the one behind this? Couldn't he bloody well fuck off for one year? God, he must be dreaming

He couldn't remember going to bed, though.

Pinching one's self seemed to be a bit amateur. A well aimed stinging hex could work, he thought, idly.

Then he shook his head.

He could think about these asinine things later. To fully assess a situation, he had to have all the variables, every single piece of available information. Right.

"What is that, then?" he asked, maybe a bit rude, pointing to the pendant.

She smiled sadly. "I'm not too sure Mister Potter, see, I have no way of knowing, no way of finding out. I'm restricted to my own painting and my painting alone. All I know, Mister Potter, is that we would do well to rid ourselves of it. Everything within this tower wilted in its presence. The inhabitants of the portraits died, strangely."

Harry could not begin to understand, they were all, already dead. What could kill a thing twice? Seemingly stop a heart that does not beat?

Harry sighed. This was boggling his mind. The stairs had betrayed him, he thought sadly. They had led him to such things at this time of the night. He wanted sleep, not riddles.

Riddle . . . oh Merlin.

A pun. He was making unintentional puns now, and laughing at them internally.

Shaking his head again, he lifted his hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose, jostling his glasses slightly in the process, as always.

"You know, Lady, it's entirely too late for this type of thing, right?" he said tiredly, just thinking of what time it must be.

She hummed, "I suppose so."

A quick _tempus _told him that it was almost 10:00, much too late for him. Considering he had his first training session for Quidditch at 6:00 the next morning, he was going to have trouble getting up in the morning.

But, this was Voldemort they were talking about. He couldn't just walk away, and say "see you tomorrow", now could he? Every facet of information _had _to be gathered. An all nighter it was to be then, he supposed.

Indicating to a space against the railing, he asked "Do you mind?"

She shook her head, smiling. "Of course not."

He took a seat on the cold hark stone floor and thought wryly, this is not how I want to get a saw ass.

Crossing his arms over his bent knees, he started from the top of his list, "Why doesn't Dumbledore know about this? He's the Headmaster, he should know."

She shook her head, "Albus is not all knowing, and the castle is almost an entity of its own. If it feels it should, it will protect the inhabitants inside from anything. Even if that means, cutting a part of itself off."

He frowned, "But what about you, and the other portraits, are you not worth protecting?"

She smiled sadly, "Noble, Mister Potter. But, we are dead, simply paintings. Our lives have been led, there is no need to protect us, and the Castle knows that."

Ah, yes . . .

"That's another thing, how could . . . that pendant there," he pointed to it, "kill beings inside these portraits if a) they're only paintings, and b) already dead? Forgive me, but you can't kill the dead. They're already, you know . . . –"

"Dead?" she laughed, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, smiling sheepishly, "Yeah."

Sobering up, the Lady sighed exasperatedly.

The she shrugged, "Not even I can tell you that. I know nothing of what this pendant is, or how it could kill every single being inside the portraits within this tower, but me.

"Although, I'm pretty sure I know why it didn't get to me. Somehow, I think I've become a sort of, host. If I die," her fingers almost brushed the pendant, "this does, as well."

Harry nodded, and then shook his head fiercely. "No, well . . . you can't be a host. Cause you're already dead."

Biting her lip, she shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm not much help, Mister Potter. I'm just an unwilling hiding place."

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